Back in Alaska, where I grew up, the trees didn’t put on the
show they do back east.

But the salmon did.

Every year, my parents took my brother and I to see the Sockeye
salmon that spawned in the rushing streams. They came from the wide seas, where
their bodies had been silver, and they made their way back to the same streams where
they had hatched.

Like the leaves, the bodies of the salmon brightened. They turned rouge and
green to attract mates. They laid their eggs, fertilized them, and died. Their
bodies became part of the soil and water near the nests of their offspring, who
they would never meet.

I love pumpkin patches and apple picking and fairs. I love
the whimsy of Halloween, where for a day, we get to don costumes and wigs and pretend we’re someone
else.

But with all this blooming and dying, whether it be leaves
or salmon, autumn, for me, is also a reflective time. A time to shake off the
looseness of summer. A time to get cozy, and also a time to think.

The blazing leaves and my childhood memories of the salmon,
who give themselves away to the cycles of the earth, always remind me to let go. They remind me to shrive myself of what
no longer works, what no longer serves me.

And for me, there is always plenty to let go of. Plastic bins
overflowing with toys, too many appointments, outgrown clothes. The urge to
know what’s next for my career, my family, the weather.

I’m trying to channel the courage of the salmon, the trust of the trees. To let go.

Sunday, August 18, 2013

I’m pretty middle of the road when it comes to green-ness. I
am obsessive about recycling, but I used disposable diapers with both kids. I
don’t eat meat, but I almost always forget to lug my re-useable grocery bags to
Trader Joe’s.

When I first met Kate and learned how she came to create
Love for Lemons, she told me that giving up paper towels was one of the first
steps she took in her journey to being more environmentally friendly. I stowed that idea away, considering it from time to time as something I should
look into. But with a preschooler, a toddler, and my own tendency to slosh coffee
everywhere, spills happen. Daily. Coffee, body fluids and milk coat the
surfaces of many of our belongings. Grabbing a wad of paper towels was second
nature to me. I used them for spills, wiping faces after meals and cleaning.
Half the time, I grabbed them without even thinking. The idea of giving them up seemed daunting.

But I decided to try giving up my paper towel habit anyway.
I figured I could try it for a few weeks, and could always revert to using them
if it proved too hard. Shoring up on motivation to help me white knuckle my way
through paper towel withdrawal, I learned that the environmental impact of
using paper towels is considerable. Besides the epic amount of trees and energy
required to produce them, they have a significant impact on landfills. An
estimated 3,000 tons of paper towels
are thrown away daily.

So I washed up all our cloth napkins, and I braced myself.

And it was… just fine.

My daughter dribbled a slug-like trail of watermelon juice
from the kitchen to the living room. My son spilled milk on his shoes. I used
those cloth napkins to wipe the floor. I ran them across mouths and fingers.
Couches and counters. The thick, cushiony roll of paper towels stayed in the
kitchen, forlorn.

I had one brief relapse when I was getting ready to take the
kids to the beach. After scrambling around for 30 minutes juggling towels and Tupperware for snacks, we were finally ready to go. As I was changing my daughter into her
swimwear, she trickled a steady stream of pee all over the kitchen floor. With no cloth napkins in
sight, I guiltily reached for the paper towels.

But otherwise, it’s been smooth sailing. I don’t miss paper
towels. It was so easy for me to make the switch that I leave you with only two
tips should you decide to try it:

Have
plenty of cloth napkins, towels and rags ready and reachable for spills,
wipes and cleaning.

Sunday, July 14, 2013

Last fall, I was struck by unexpected the urge to run. I was
walking through the sprawling cemetery near my house like I’ve done for years,
when suddenly my body wanted to move fast.
I was always the kid picked last in gym class, staring down at my Adidas’ while
everyone else got snatched up for team sports. In middle school, I once tried
to break my leg to get out of playing volleyball. When I was only left with a
few lilac bruises on my ankles for my efforts, I convinced my pediatrician to
write a note explaining that my chronic sinus infections rendered me unable to
participate in gym class.

Though unlikely, especially at the age of 38, the strange
desire to run was persistent. It felt like I had little bolts of electricity in
my body, pushing me to be fast. I was also drawn to the efficiency of running; as
mom to two young children, I don’t have much spare time, and I knew I could
accomplish more physically on a short run than on a long walk.

And, approaching 40 and mired in the beautiful and boring
tasks of child-rearing, I needed to prove that I could still surprise myself. Maybe
even surprise those grocery clerks who kept calling me, ‘Ma’am.’

A good friend of mine told me that she had just started
training to run using an app on her phone called Couch to 5K. The eight week
program alternates bursts of jogging with sweet respites of walking. It
gradually increases the amount of time you jog until you are ready for a 5K. I
decided to sign up for the Mother’s Day 5K in May; I would have eight months to
make it through the eight week training program.

After loading the app onto my phone, I again headed to the
cemetery. My phone instructed me to jog for 90 second intervals between longer
stretches of walking.

But I didn’t know how to run.

As I tried to pick up my pace, my body felt disconnected and
jerky. The asthma that had lain dormant for years suddenly reappeared. I felt
like a middle schooler on the dance floor—what was I supposed to do with my
arms? Why wouldn’t they coordinate with my legs? I also feared I would make the
dreaded porn face that so many runners make; the scrunched up, concentrated
face that looked a lot like intense pain.

Some days, just to keep going, I pretended I was running
away from my children.

Every once in awhile, when I stopped thinking about it so
much, my arms and legs synched up. My brain got quiet. Endorphins sparked and
rushed through my blood. The music from my phone slipped into my muscles like
cold milk sliding into a glass.

As fall progressed, the bite of cold in the air pushed me
further. With the crunch of melon-hued leaves beneath my feet, I jogged past
headstones with names like Sterling and
Ruth and Eliza. It was impossible to not think of aging and death. My body
would not always be so healthy and capable. Sometimes, with the sound of my own
heavy breath, I heard myself whisper to my body, to the universe: thank you.

Other days, I had to drag myself out the door. I would jog
and walk, jog and walk, wondering why the heck I was doing this to my poor old
body. Loud thoughts would scamper through my head: Do they make Spanx for running? Would it be embarrassing to have a
heart attack during a light jog? Then, from my phone app, I would hear a
pleasant, female voice announce, “You are halfway.” Shit, I thought. I am only halfway there?

image by Ariel da Silva Parreira

When hills of snow obscured the ground, I joined a gym. My
feet pounded the rubbery black treadmill. Slowly, I was improving. But every
few weeks, I’d twist my knee or my back would seize up, and I’d take a week or
two off from running to recover. When I started up again, I would dial myself
back a week on the Couch to 5K program.

Suddenly, it was April. Despite my consistently inconsistent
training program, I had still not managed to make it past week five of the
Couch to 5K program. The Mother’s Day run loomed near. Ancient, negative tapes
in my mind hissed at me: You’re a loser. You
never finish anything. You’re no athlete.

Being in the middle of the human life cycle seems like a
good time to challenge those old, unhelpful thoughts and patterns. To ease
deeper into myself and let go of perfectionism and competition.

So I reframed my expectations. I wasn’t a loser because I
was walking in between running. I was freakin’ amazing because I ran in between walking!

And then my husband started asking, “Are you excited about
the race?”

Race?!?

I really hadn’t thought about the run being a race before. The word reactivated
those nasty voices in my head: You’re
going to lose the race! You will come in last place!

Fortunately, I’d promised to do the race with a good friend.
While I was ambivalent about the idea of letting myself down, I’d be damned if
I would break a promise to a friend. I decided I would walk as much as I needed
to. My only goal was to finish, and to run at least a little bit.

On the day of the race, it drizzled. Maybe they’ll cancel it, I thought. They didn’t.

My friend and I situated ourselves towards the back of the
crowd of people at the starting line, alongside elderly joggers and moms pushing
strollers. While we stretched a bit, I worried: What if we run at different paces? What if I come in last place? What
if I have to pee?

We started.

We jogged by my husband and kids, who stood on the sidewalk
beaming at me. I reached my hand out to give them a high five. The feel of their
little hands on mine propelled me forward. I was following through, doing
something good for my body. I was teaching my kids by example, even if I did
come in last.

A few minutes into the race, we reached the top of a small
hill. I looked forward. The road ahead was a river of moving people, a rainbow
of bright T-shirts.

We jogged, and pretty soon we were passing people. My friend
and I braided in and out, in and out, our paces perfectly synchronized. I didn’t
make the porn face because I was too busy
smiling. I brushed my bangs, wet from the rain, out of my eyes.

We didn’t talk much, except to occasionally check in with each other.
“You okay?”
“Yep, you?”

I caught slivers of conversation from the people we passed and the people who
passed us. “The antidepressants help me think better…”

“Jimmy is almost done with school…”

“It’s all downhill from here!”

While we ran, I thought about the lives of these people
running with us. I thought about them the way I sometimes do when I’m at a
stoplight and I watch other cars streaming past: I watch the drivers’ faces:
solemn or angry, heads bobbing to music or chatting away on their cell phones.
When I’m quiet and present, I love these little snapshots. I love watching
these people I might not ever meet, who just happen to be here at the same time
as me, alive at the same time. So beautiful, so temporary.

We ran and ran and we didn’t stop. I took in all the
different body types of the runners and walkers: stocky, muscular, lithe, round
and everything in between. All the same and all different. All here now, moving.
Because we could, and because we won’t always be able to. I heard once that the
electrical energy field of the human heart extends out several feet beyond our
skin. I thought about all those hearts working so hard. Maybe it was the heat
of all those humming and pumping hearts that kept me running.

You are halfway, I
thought. Right in the middle. Of my messy, lovely life. Of all these people.

The race ended in a baseball stadium. As we rounded the
finish line, I was still smiling. We did
it, I said to my friend, my body finally slowing down to a walk. I searched
the crowd of spectators for my family.

After the race, I got an email with the results. I came in
somewhere towards the back end of the middle.

If I’m lucky, I am only halfway through this achy, gorgeous
life. I might not ever run a seven minute mile. But for that uncoordinated
little girl who loathed gym class, that little girl who is still so completely
me and not me at the same time, a 5K
is a miracle. Learning to run, to sink into my muscles in a deeper and
different way, is a miracle. It’s a metaphor for being more comfortable and
stronger in my own skin.

On Facebook, I’ve noticed several friends have also recently
started running. My husband is training for a five mile run. I love that in
this middle place of life, we can still surprise ourselves. We are halfway.

Did you take up running, or something
else surprising in the middle of your life?

Friday, June 28, 2013

I was at the Yarmouth farmers Market Yesterday and was talking with some customers and I realized that I should do a Blog post about some of the interesting (well, interesting to a geek like me) alternative uses of our products.

So here are a few tips and alternative uses for some of the products that I make.

1.) Our Eucalyptus Carpet Deodorizer is a versatile 3-in-1 product. Its main use is to deodorize your carpets. The eucalyptus is effective at removing mold and mildew odors and the Sodium minerals are perfect for the toxic free deodorizing of carpets and upholstery. The Second awesome use for this product is to put it to use as a bathroom or stove scrubber. Mix the powder with a little vinegar or water for a great tub, sink ,toilet, or stove scrub that has some real teeth! Lastly, When I find my drains running slow- I mix a half cup of the powder with a half cup vinegar and immediately pour into drain. I let it sit for 15 minutes and rinse with very hot water. Beat that caustic Drano!!2.) This next one is a bit weird, but I will explain. Our Antiseptic Boo-Boo Spray is always perfect for cleansing scrapes and cuts. It is super antibacterial and uses the power of tea tree oil, lemon oil, and a few other expertly blended essential oils to fight germs. This blend of botanical oils are just as powerful as rubbing alcohol (MRSA bacteria is rapidly becoming resistant to alcohol as a disinfectant) or other petroleum based antibiotic ointments (VOC's yuck). The Alternative use for this product is to combat body odors with this antimicrobial spray. Think feet and armpits mostly. The odor causing bacteria is no match for this product and it is much more body and earth friendly than deodorants. It has been said that some breast cancer tumors contain the staple chemicals used in Antiperspirants and are located near the armpits. Here is a little research on this from JulieGabriel.Com British molecular biologist Philippa Darbre reported that found in breast cancer tumors came from something applied to the skin, such as an antiperspirant, cream or body spray. This could explain why up to 60% of all breast tumors are found in just one-fifth of the breast – the upper-outer quadrant, nearest the underarm.

“The presence of intact paraben esters in human body tissues has now been confirmed by independent measurements in human urine, ” writes Dr. Darbre, “The ability of parabens to penetrate human skin intact without breakdown by esterases and to be absorbed systemically has been demonstrated through studies not only in vitro but also in vivo using healthy human subjects.” In addition, the parabens have now also been shown to possess androgen antagonist activity, to act as inhibitors of sulfotransferase enzymes and to possess genotoxic activity. You can find the entire post here- http://juliegabriel.com/parabens-and-breast-cancer-parabens-tumor/.

3.) On a lighter note, One of my favorite customers from the Local Farmers Markets told me that she has used my Maine Rosemary Laundry Soda in her dishwasher and it worked. It's low sudsing formula won't remind you of that time that you put your dish soap in your dishwasher (we have ALL done it, right??) and the salt based minerals are a powerhouse on dirt and grease. Also, anytime that you are using a more natural dishwasher soap, make sure to use white vinegar and a bit of rubbing alcohol as your rinse aid. In fact, since Phosphates were banned from all dishwasher products a few years back- it is smart to use vinegar/rubbing alcohol for a rinse aid 100% of the time. It makes a huge difference in streaking and white spots.

Monday, June 24, 2013

Hello Internet Readers, Fans and Customers- Kate here. Our frequent guest writer, Lynn, does such a nice job on here but I thought that I would take a minute to chime in on this Steamy Maine Day. (We get about ten total all summer, so I am enjoying it)Lately, I have been switching up just about everything in my little corner of the world. We will be welcoming a new addition to our Family this October (yes, that makes three and we will be outnumbered). My hard working husband has graduated and is now working 80 hours between his two jobs, apparently thats what you do in corporate America.(I wouldn't know, not my thing). I have also sold my large cleaning business recently. This was a huge change for me. I was getting used to being an on the go, wheeling and dealing, successful business woman. It was a hard business, late nights, early mornings, and a few ulcerative fits thrown in due to stress. Obviously, it was time to slow things down, but these newly found slow paced and hazy summer days have left me contemplating "success". I know it seems rather narcissistic to think about your personal success, but I have a feeling that we all gauge our effectiveness and accomplishments in this world from time to time. Driving around this little slice of Mid Coast Maine I often cruise past, or behind, my high school chemistry teacher. At seventeen-I was no student, but he was kind and patient with me...when I decided to show up. On the last paper that I turned in, late no doubt, he wrote: "I see great things in your future". I have kept this piece of paper and I think of it often. I had always thought that this statement was something that I have fallen short of. I had habitually imagined these "great things" as being more akin to the career paths of astronauts, corporate execs, teachers, writers, etc.I was no astronaut. It took me ten years to get my Bachelors, something that seemed to be much easier to accomplish as my toddler and infant watched with their little eyes. In the meantime during my twenties, I was busy soaking up life: traveling, working as a nanny to an amazing family, and dabbling in this and that. Diving head first into little because there was always something intangible to swim for instead. If I did take a dive, I quickly found my way back to the shallow end. Something about my opinion of my own 'success' or accomplishments has shifted this past year. Perhaps these 'great things' that my teacher had foreshadowed are things that I have already accomplished and what I am in the middle of "doing". Yes, I do believe that raising happy and well adjusted children is a feat no less noble than shooting oneself into outer space (cross your fingers for me-both require the same amount of skill and luck). Making sure that we didn't lose our home when my husband left his longtime, well paying job, could very well be said to require the craft of a corporate exec. My Product Company may not be on the shelves of Target. However, many people thank me for my products and their presence in their favorite local shops. I am always so happy to see my regular customers greet me at various Farmers markets. All of my career paths have allowed me to bring my daughter to each weeks ballet lesson, be present to kiss Greysons MANY boo-boo's, and get their lunch on the table each day. Of course, these simple things may not be everyones life ambitions, but if I really think about it, they are definitely mine.

Maybe its not about world domination, but more so about dominating the realm within which you choose to walk.

As a Side Note: There is a new item for sale on the Web Store. A Starter Pack of our essential chemical free products.

Friday, May 31, 2013

We are Skyping with my parents when I realize it is time for
the talk.

My mom and dad’s disembodied heads grin as my four-year-old
disrobes. “Oh, Max, can you please keep your clothes on?” I beg. It is just
after 1:00 PM and we have already had four costume changes. Lately Max demands
to dress monochromatically. His favorite such outfit is his gray sweatpants and
grey shirt, which my husband says makes him look like a 1950’s gym teacher. He
just needs a whistle. “I want my grays!” are among the first words out of his
mouth in the morning. But now, his grays lie on the floor near his bare ankles.

Max opens his mouth, cackles a bit and does a little jig in
his Cars underwear. Except that he is removing that now, too. “Maxie! That’s
private,” I say. As I say it, I realize I have never said that to him before. I
have begged for privacy myself: Can I
please just go to the bathroom without an audience, just this once? I have
stopped him from barging in on unsuspecting friends as they use the potty: Maxie, Addie probably wants a little
privacy. On the computer screen, my parents shake their heads, still
smiling.

We have taken a very relaxed approach to nudity thus far. I
am amazed and awed by the way that my children are strangers to shame. Having
had a long history with negative body image and shame, I ache to preserve this
feeling for them for as long as possible. Soon enough, societal pressures and
rules will have their way with my babies and they will be exposed to our
culture’s strange and conflicting ideas about bodies and sex.

My husband and I have tried hard to create a little slice of
Eden in our home; we use the correct parlance for body parts. We don’t make a
big deal if of our children see our naked bodies while we are bathing or
getting dressed. Max recently asked me, “Mama? Why are your nimples so big? Are you gonna have
another baby?”

But lately, Max has been removing his fig leaf a bit too
often. His penis has joined us during playdates with friends, at an indoor play
space, and recently, on our windowsill. He is four now. He can count and write
his name. Soon he will be in grade school, and it seems unlikely that his
kindergarten teacher will encourage the unleashing of genitals during show and
tell.

I take a deep breath and begin. “Maxie, I need to talk to
you about something.”

“What?” He looks at me. I can tell by the light in his eyes that he thinks I am
going to tell him something exciting. Yes,
you can have that Easter candy for breakfast after all! We are going to watch
Cars movies all day long, only taking short breaks to eat pepperoni and Easter
candy!

“Sweetie, there’s nothing wrong with your penis,” I begin. Already
I am saying it all wrong. The expectant light will now drain from his eyes
forever, and all he will hear is “Wrong with your penis!” This will be the
moment he will someday pinpoint in therapy, the beginning of his downward shame
spiral.

“But it’s a private part of your body,” I stumble. “We just
don’t show our privates to everybody, okay?”

“Okay,” he says, prancing off to pound on his drum set.

I head into the kitchen to scavenge for lunch for him and
Violet. I am slicing a pear, gauging at the stiff core and seeds, when I spy
something pink out of the bottom right corner of my eye.

“Maxie!” His underwear is pulled down just far enough that his penis rests atop
Lighting McQueen’s bulging eyes. “Remember what we just talked about?” I ask.

“Pitano is a monster who puts his penis out!” he blurts.

What? I think.

“What?” I say.

“Pitano is a monster who puts his penis out!” he restates.

“Where did that come from?” I ask.

“I made it up!” I laugh, unable to stop myself. Who is
Pitano? Does Max now think he’s a monster because he’s exposing himself? I
imagine a future Max in a shadowy room, flogging himself like the tormented Silas
from The Da Vinci Code. Bad Pitano!
Bad Pitano! He will chant.

Max is trying so hard to understand the world. He asks
things like, “Why does mans not care if they get their shoes wet?” and “Why
isn’t Aunt Sue’s dad alive?” and “But where were Violet and I before we were in
your belly?”

They are questions I mostly don’t know the answers to. And truthfully, I don’t
really know why it’s not acceptable to display one’s genitals publicly. Perhaps
our bodies and sex would seem like less of a big deal if we all were privy to
one another’s privates. If, like Muppets with their uniquely colored heads and hair,
our bodies, with all their quirks and variations, were exposed. We could go
about our business, Muppet genitals flopping in the breeze.

The kids and I eat lunch, then head to the playground. Pitano
doesn’t make any more appearances. After the kids are both in bed, I try to
read, but something nags at me. Though it seems to not have sunk in, I hate
that I severed a little slice of my son’s innocence today. I cast him from Eden,
never to return. It aches, the same way it aches when I catch a glimpse of him
at his daycare before he sees me. There
is Max, out in the world.

Which is, of course, exactly why we have to teach him about
privacy. A big part of our job as parents is to help our kids learn to be okay
out in the world. Wearing clothes. Even if they’re monochromatic.

How do you teach your
children about nudity and privacy? Or other societal rules that you don’t 100%
buy in to or understand?

Friday, May 3, 2013

It happens at the playground: Why is my child licking the statue like it's a giant metal
ice cream cone? It rears up regarding career and ambition: How come she is younger than me, but has already
published a book and has a story in the New Yorker? And at the gym: Did you see her butt? It doesn’t move when
she runs! My butt is so big, it has its own pair of running shoes!

Needless to say, this voice sucks. It is not helpful. It
doesn’t inspire me. But it is loud, bossy and persistent.

Sometimes, when I’m smack in the midst of struggling with a
life lesson, the universe gives me a little extra material:

“Mommy, you left your underwear at my school,” my son says.
Four year olds say many weird things, flailing from the existential: “But where
were me and Violet before we were in your belly?” To the bizarre: “Pitano is a
monster who puts his penis out!” To the embarrassing: “Why are your nimples so
big? Are you going to have another baby?”

I have become used to fielding bizarre questions and
statements. So the underwear comment semi-permeates my consciousness, but
quickly glurps beneath the surface of my quicksand mama brain.

But the next day, he says it again. “Max, what are you
talking about?” I ask.

“Deb was holding it up,” he says, his arm outstretched to
demonstrate.

Oh dear God. I can
instantly feel the static that his school nap blanket and sheet create when
they come out of the dryer, clinging to each other like new lovers. I remember not taking the three seconds to shake
them out and fold them before I dropped Max off at preschool on Wednesday
morning. This must be why most people wash their sheets or towels separately
from the rest of their clothing instead of tossing it all together, a bright
stew of darks and lights, nap sheets and panties.

I bet the other
mommies all shake and fold. They probably even do it the night before school,
right after they finish cleaning up from the five-course organic meal they made
for dinner, I think.

When I drop Max off at school the following day, my fears
are confirmed. In his cubby slumps a crumpled plastic Hannaford bag, the kind
that his clothes come home in when he gets pee or vomit on them. I peek in and
spy a flash of bright pink.

“Hiiiii Deb!” Max bellows to his teacher as he struts into
his classroom. Violet makes her bowlegged way after him, heading straight for a
tray of small, shiny beads that are exactly the same size as her esophagus.

“Hey, Deb,” I say. We make brief small talk about the upcoming
auction for the school while my underwear blazes in my son’s cubby. I take a
breath and decide to confront the situation head on. “So… Max tells me a pair
of my underwear made it to school the other day?”

“He told you?” she says, surprised.

"Yep.”

“You’re not the first,” she says. A breeze of relief flushes
over me.

“Really?” I ask.

“I’ve seen thongs…all kinds of things…” She trails off, a
war veteran trying not to summon up the horrors her eyes have beheld.

“At least it was clean,” I quip. And not the enormous, leftover maternity panties that I drag out once a
month, I think.

After I hug and kiss Max goodbye, I grab Violet and my
underwear.

Maybe that wasn’t so
bad, I think. I’m so tired of trying to gauge how I measure up, always
coming up short. It takes so much energy. I make mostly good choices. My kids
are healthy and loved, and they seem to be kind human beings. It is unlikely that the underwear incident will be mentioned at my funeral. It is doubtful
that my inability to get a meal on the table that doesn’t contain peanut butter
or pepperoni will come up. We are human. We have body parts and children that don't always behave as we'd like them to. We are wildly imperfect, shimmeringly
flawed creatures.

That being said, I will probably shake and fold my son’s nap
gear next week.